


Wasn't That Drunk

by karrahbear



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Artist Derek Hale, Canon-adjacent, Coming In Pants, Derek Hale Cooks, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale Gets Therapy, Derek and Stiles dance, Domestic Fluff, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Future Fic, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Meeting in a Bar, Reunion, Schmoop, Soul Bond, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, but quickly grew out of control, like woah, minor OCs - Freeform, minor smut, seriously like ALL the fluff, started out as a song-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrahbear/pseuds/karrahbear
Summary: Derek and Stiles bump into each other at a small-town bar. Sparks fly.That's pretty much it. Like seriously, there's no greater plot to this piece, it's just a giant piece of fluff that's so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. And I'm the one who wrote it.





	Wasn't That Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Wasn't That Drunk" by the Josh Abbott Band.
> 
> This definitely started out as song-fic, but I got through the first few thousand words and realized that it wasn't following quite as well as I intended. So I scrapped the song portion. And now I've got 20k words of nothing but happiness and warm-fuzzies. 
> 
> This has also been sitting on my flash drive for about a year now, while I've tried to come up with some sort of plot to tie into it, but I've got bupkus. So, I figured I'd post what I've got since it felt like a good place to end it. As for the future, I've got other short scenes in my head, kind of like flashbacks to things mentioned in this fic, so I might post those if I ever get them written. Otherwise, I'll leave this as it is. 
> 
> Not beta-read. All grammatical and spelling mutilations are my own. Also, I'm an inexperienced smut writer. Please be gentle.

“What can I getcha Derek?”

The bartender, a large, broad shouldered were-bear in his fifties stood across the bar in front of Derek, his dirty bar rag tossed over one shoulder and a friendly smile on his face.

“Whatever’s on tap is fine,” Derek answered. “And a basket of curly fries.”

“Comin’ right up. Your usual table in the back is free.”

“Thanks, Vern.”

Derek snagged a matchbook from a bowl on the counter and then stepped away from the bar and made his way back towards the table near the far corner. It was slightly wobbly, and the lighting was poor, but it was also next to a window that he could crack open when the air inside the bar grew too thick or stale. He could also fix the wobbly table with the matchbook, which he slid under the foot on one side of the table, stopping the table’s see-sawing, and with his werewolf vision, a few extra shadows weren’t a problem.

It wasn’t until Vern had dropped off his beer and fries that Derek opened his bag and removed his sketchbook and a small pouch. He unzipped the pouch and rifled through it until he found a couple pencils to his liking, and then sat back and let his mind slowly clear as his fingers rendered the scenes in front of him into graphite.

It was already late, after 8 o’clock, and a weeknight, so the bar was less crowded than it would’ve been on a weekend. It was one of Derek’s favorite times to visit, since he could avoid the crowds, the noise level was tolerable, and the bartender didn’t try to flirt with him. The fact that the scents of the other supernatural creatures in the bar were muted by the runes carved into the crown molding and he could get beer with wolfsbane also made the list of pros.

After a while, he found himself focused on one specific patron at the bar, so he flipped to a clean page and started a new scene, this one with the man at the bar as the main focus. He sketched in the vague impressions of the man’s surroundings: the bar, the other patrons, Vern’s hulking form, before he went back to the man at the center. But something about the drawing didn’t feel right, so Derek flipped to another blank page.

He exchanged the pencils for charcoal and tried again. This time he didn’t bother with the surroundings, he was only focused on the tall, lithe form perched on the end of a barstool. He got the man’s torso, the way his thin t-shirt stretched a little too tight across his shoulders but hung loose around his waist, telling Derek that the man wasn’t carrying any extra weight in his belly, and he managed to mostly capture the way the man’s jeans clung to his ass. Derek had minor trouble with the man’s right foot, which was perched on the rail in front of the bar, and hadn’t stopped bouncing, but the real challenge he faced were the arms. The man was talking to Vern and his hands kept waving and gesturing as he spoke. Every time Derek thought he might get a minute or two to study him and figure out how to add the arms, the man started moving again. After a few minutes, Derek decided to move on and come back to the arms. He was finishing up the artful tousle of hair on the man’s head when Vern appeared at his table with another beer.

“Why’s he got no arms?”

Derek smiled as he looked up. “They keep moving. I can’t figure out where to put them.”

“How ‘bout attached to his shoulders?”

Derek snorted and rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling, betraying his affection for the bartender.

“How long would’ja need?”

“For what?”

“To draw the arms?”

Derek shrugged and looked down at the mostly finished drawing. “Just a few minutes. But -”

“Betcha’ I can get him to sit still.”

Derek was about to tell Vern that it wasn’t necessary, but the bartender was already halfway back to the bar. He watched Vern slide behind the counter and sidle over to the man. They exchanged words that Derek couldn’t hear over the music, cutlery, and conversation, and then Vern was grinning and catching Derek’s eyes. Derek shook his head, but turned his gaze over to where the man now sat mostly still, forearms braced on the bar, large hands and slim fingers settled around his mostly empty glass. Derek briefly considered whether the situation made him a creeper or not, but found that if it did, he could live with himself. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

His eyes flickered back and forth for a couple minutes while he got the broad strokes sketched in, and then his focus narrowed to the page in front of him where he finished adding shadows and dimensionality. He didn’t know how long he’d been working before someone spoke.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Derek’s heart stuttered as the familiar voice washed over him. He took a deep breath, attempting to steady himself, but his nose was flooded with the scent that was so deeply ingrained in his memory, that he dreamt about it and woke up some mornings still able to smell it.

The owner of the voice and the scent slid into the booth on the other side of the table.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing towards Derek’s sketchbook.

Wordlessly, Derek set the sketchbook down on the table and slid it over. He only looked up after he knew that Stiles’ attention was focused on the page in front of him.

He should have known. He really, really should have known that the figure at the bar was Stiles, if not from shape, then definitely from movement. Those were classic Stiles. But the wolfsbane-laced beer had settled into his blood stream, dulling his senses just enough to allow him to focus on his art, without being distracted by the movement and sound of the bar and without his constant, anxiety-induced hyper-vigilance. So he hadn’t noticed. But now he couldn’t stop noticing.

Stiles was taller, broader, his jawline sharper and face more angular. His skin was bronzed, a contrast to the pale hue of his younger years, and there was actual stubble on his cheeks and chin. He visually traced the cupids bow of his lips, wondering if he could accurately capture it with paper and dry media, before his eyes dropped lower. The shirt he was wearing was an old Beacon Hills lacrosse tee that Derek remembered him wearing years ago, but back then, he hadn’t filled it out quite as well. Now the soft cotton clung to Stiles’ chest, the fabric pulling taut and the cracks in the screen-printing widening every time he breathed in.

“Christ, Derek. You’re really good.”

There were very few things that could set his human and lupine instincts at odds, but such an earnest and genuine compliment was definitely one of them. He was torn between puffing his chest in pride and curling in on himself in embarrassment. Luckily, it didn’t seem like Stiles was expecting an answer and wasn’t aware of his internal discomfort. 

Derek’s gaze flitted to where Stiles was flipping through his sketchbook. For a moment all he could do was watch Stiles’ hands. The younger man had palms as big as Derek’s, but his fingers were longer, slimmer – his mother would have called them _pianist’s hands_ – with an elegance that made Derek’s fingers itch to pick up a pencil, just to see if he could capture them. He knew exactly the kind of strokes he’d use: long, continuous ones, the fewer lines the better. His mind flashed back to a drawing of tiger he’d done years ago and the difficulty he’d had with capturing the finesse of the animal without losing the power and innate lethality. Drawing Stiles’ hands would present the same challenge of capturing both strength and nobility without losing or overshadowing one or the other.

Derek finally tore his eyes away and tried to occupy himself with drinking his beer while Stiles continued to leaf through his sketchbook. The younger man was focused as turned the pages, face relaxed, but eyes intent, studying the sketches and drawings carefully.

If it had been anyone else traversing the pages, Derek would’ve been furious and embarrassed. His sketchbook was almost like a diary, and allowing someone to explore it so casually should have been frightening, but…this wasn’t just someone. This was Stiles, who was holding it and turning the pages slowly, almost reverently, like he was worried he’d ruin it. And Derek had willingly handed the book over; in fact, he hadn’t even hesitated when Stiles had asked.

When Stiles reached the most recent picture, he slid the book back over to Derek, who closed it and slipped it into his bag. They both sat in silence for several moments, Derek sipping his beer and Stiles finishing his.

“You want another?” Derek asked, nodding towards the empty glass.

“Sure. Thank you.”

Derek glanced over towards the bar and caught Vern’s eye. He pointed at the glasses on the table and held up two fingers. Vern grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. When Derek’s attention returned to the table, he found Stiles watching him. Several years ago, if Derek had caught Stiles watching him, the younger man would’ve quickly averted his gaze and flushed. Now, Stiles simply continued to watch him, though Derek did notice that the tips of his ears were pinker.

The high-pitched _clink_ of a quarter falling into the jukebox cut through the auditory din, catching Derek’s attention long enough that he heard the first few notes of some Texas country ballad. He briefly wondered when he’d become able to differentiate between Texas and Nashville country music, and then imagined how hard Stiles would laugh if he knew.

“It’s been a while,” he said finally, mentally face-palming even before he’d finished the sentence. It was a stupid line. Obviously it had been a while. But it was all Derek could come up with at the moment.

“I just saw you around Christmas.”

It was true. Their paths crossed a few times a year, usually in Beacon Hills, but a couple times in Houston, where Stiles had been going to school. They had never really gotten a chance to catch up, though, their encounters limited to bumping into each other at the grocery store or at the rare pack meeting that Derek dropped in on to say hello to the McCall pack.

Derek shrugged. “I meant since we’ve – well, since we’ve talked. Not talked, but…”

“Actually had some sort of meaningful discussion?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then you’re right. It’s been a few years, yeah.”

“Five and a half.”

The correction slipped out before he could stop it and Derek waited for Stiles’ inevitable cackle. But it didn’t arrive. Instead, Stiles’ eyebrows rose and the corners of his mouth quirked up, but he didn’t comment. That was definitely new. This was possibly the least that Derek had ever heard Stiles say, unless he was asleep, and even then, his silence wasn’t guaranteed. This older, more self-assured version of the mouthy teen was throwing Derek for a loop. Even his resting heartrate had slowed from previous years.

“You’re wearing your confused eyebrows.”

Derek huffed in amusement. Maybe he wasn’t _that_ different. Stiles still read him better than anyone he’d ever known. Family included.

“I’m just trying to figure out whether it’s actually you, or whether I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Why?”

“Because usually I’d have told you to shut up at least twice by now.”

Stiles laughed, bright and loud, making Derek’s stomach flip, and then slid his hand across the table, offering up the inside of his wrist. “Take a whiff, big guy. It’ll prove that I’m actually here and it should give you a hint about the lack of word vomit.”

Derek swallowed heavily and then gently took Stiles’ wrist, lifting it up to his nose and breathing in. This time the distinct scent of _Stiles_ hit him harder. It was earthy, like a mixture of dirt and tree bark and nature, or like the scent of sunshine that clung to his wolf’s coat after a long, warm nap on the porch, with an undercurrent of spicy musk that every male possessed, only Stiles’ was sharper, clearer. It swept into his sinuses, soaked into his brain, refreshing and reviving his memories of it, and even slipped down his throat until Derek could almost taste that distinctive aroma. He took another deep inhale, another hit of the only drug for which he would willingly abandon himself into the arms of addiction.

“Well?”

Stiles’ voice sounded rougher and Derek blinked his eyes open, unsure of when he’d let them fall shut. He took a final, shorter sniff before lowering their hands to the table.

“The Adderall is gone.”

He hadn’t realized it until the words were out of his mouth. The sour note of Adderall that snaked through Stiles’ scent in the past was gone. There was just a faint whiff of something different, more metallic, but barely noticeable. Other wolves, even Scott who had known Stiles for years, probably wouldn’t notice the difference. But Derek did.

The bright smile that broke across the younger man’s face was so familiar it made Derek’s heart throb painfully in his chest. “Yeah. When I started college, I had to find a new doctor and he wanted me to try a different medication. It took a few months of trial and error, but we finally found one that worked much better than Adderall ever did. Hence my new brain-to-mouth filter.”

Derek hummed an acknowledgement and then asked, “You ended up at Rice, right?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I got my undergrad there. I’m starting grad school at Stanford in the fall.”

“Oh ho,” Vern said, setting two full glasses in front of them. “Beauty _and_ brains. This boy’s a keeper, Hale.”

“Shut up and get back to the bar, Shaw,” Derek snapped, but there was no heat behind the words.

Vern slapped his hand to his chest in mock affront. “After the favor I did for you earlier, this is how you treat me?”

“That wasn’t a favor. That was meddling.”

Vern boomed a laugh as he turned to leave. “You wound me, Hale,” he called over his shoulder, still laughing.

Derek rolled his eyes and looked back at Stiles. There was a fond smile on his lips as he took a sip of the beer in front of him. It was a smile that he hadn’t seen but for a handful of times, and none of them had ever been aimed at him. Now that it was, he felt a swell of contentment settle in his belly.

“So, uh, what are you studying?”

Stiles’ smile widened into the one he wore when he launched into a subject that he was particularly interested in. God, the man had so many different smiles, and Derek hadn’t even realized he knew that, let alone could tell the difference between them. He was starting to wonder if maybe he’d been aware of Stiles much more intently than he realized for all these years. Something about that idea made his insides flutter.

“Officially, I got my degree in Anthropology. And when I start at Stanford, I’ll be getting my masters in Anthropology, with a focus on Culture and Society.”

Derek sipped at his own beer. “And unofficially?”

“Rice and Stanford are a couple of the only schools that have a Supernatural Entities department, so my undergrad degree was kind of Anthropology with a twist, and I’ll still technically be studying Anthropology at Stanford, it’ll just be less anthropological and more cryptozoological. I don’t think there’s really a word for it yet, since anthropology implies ‘human’ and when you say cryptozoology, all I can think about is that show with the rednecks hunting for bigfoot-”

“Which one?”

“Touché. I don’t know what it says about our society that there are multiple shows about sasquatch hunting, but I know it’s nothing good.” Stiles laughed.

Derek waited for Stiles to catch his breath before asking, “So you’re going to be an anthrocryptologist?”

The question made the younger man go still for a few seconds, mulling it over.

“Anthrocryptologist. Anthrocryptology,” he said slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth. “I like it. That’s actually a pretty good name for it, so yeah. I guess so.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence sipping at their beers. Derek reached into his bag again and removed his sketchbook. He flipped open to a blank page, picked up a pencil, and let his hand wander across the paper.

“Do you know what you want to do after you graduate?” Derek didn’t look up from his sketching as he asked. The sound Stiles’ glass made as he set it back on the table told Derek that he’d finished his beer.

The front door to the bar swept open as a few large bikers lumbered in, and the brief shift in air currents allowed Derek to catch a faint whiff of embarrassment emanating from Stiles.

“Honestly?”

Derek looked up and met Stiles’ eyes. “Always,” he said immediately, before his eyes fell back to his sketch.

“Er, well, I’m not – “

The halting sentence fragment made Derek look up again. It was the first time since Stiles had slid into the booth across from him that the younger man had been stumbling over his words. Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck and, despite the shadows, Derek could see the flush rise up his neck and cheeks.

“What do you want to do?” he asked sincerely, interest piqued by Stiles’ sudden demeanor change.

Stiles took a deep breath before answering. “Okay, so there’s kind of a story that I need to tell you first. It explains what I want to do and why.”

Derek nodded, but held up a finger to indicate he should wait before continuing, and glanced over at the bar. He caught Vern’s eye and jerked his head towards their table, holding up two fingers, and then one finger, making a twirling motion. The bartender gave him a thumbs-up and Derek turned back to Stiles.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Stiles lifted an eyebrow at him but didn’t ask about the brief exchange. Instead, he started in on his story.

“When I got to Rice, I was approached by the Alpha of the Inner Southwest Houston Territory, because apparently Deaton had written to him when I accepted at Rice to let him know I was coming. And on a side note, you would not _believe_ the number of werewolf packs currently living in Houston, not including those living in the suburbs and surrounding areas. I mean, they have their own city council meetings, they have specifically defined boundaries, and they’ve all signed on to a collective treaty that governs the packs living in Harris County. Any pack that doesn’t agree and sign on with the treaty is forced out, which they said hasn’t happened in a few decades, but still. That kind of organization and bureaucracy is absolutely staggering.”

Derek nodded and the corner of his mouth quirked upward as he answered. “Generally, cities as large as Houston average about fifty or sixty, but only about a third of those are full packs with territorial rights; the rest are usually individuals, like college students or expats who are working or going to school, so their permanent residences, and pack territories, are elsewhere. Although, I’m sure there’s a few small families that aren’t interested in territory and politics who live there too. Those kinds of packs are generally left alone, as long as they don’t cause trouble.” He paused to take a drink before continuing. “Anyway, last I heard, there were twenty-one governing packs with territorial rights in Harris County, unless the Houston Pack Territory Agreement of 1939 has been amended again. The last amendment divided the Hassan Pack territory in the far northwestern part of the county and gave part of it to the Diaz Pack. But that was back around the time I was born in the late 80s.”

Stiles’ mouth had fallen open and a mild sense of pride swept over Derek as he realized that for once, _he_ was teaching _Stiles_. The obvious interest on Stiles’ face, despite the shocked expression, convinced Derek to continue.

“There’s a lot of mingling that goes on between the packs in Texas, especially in the big cities, which has helped keep the peace. A lot of the packs that reside in downtown Houston or near downtown will negotiate friendly treaties with the packs that live farther out in the less populated or more rural areas, so that they have somewhere to run during the full moons. Occasionally, usually every five or six years, they’ll do a county wide run during the full moon. The entire ‘wolf population will meet up at the very edge of the county and then they’ll run all night. The young adults will race all the way to Austin and then spend a couple days with one of the local packs there, while the young adults in Austin run the opposite way and spend a couple days with the Houston packs.”

“That’s so fucking cool!” Stiles’ eyes twinkled. “Why don’t we do that in Beacon Hills?”

“I would guess that part of it’s the culture. Texans, and Southerners in general, tend to be friendlier and more open and welcoming, whereas the rest of the country keeps to themselves. But it’s probably also due to terrain. Out in the mountains, traveling 150 miles is a lot more difficult than traveling 150 miles across flat pastureland.”

Stiles slumped back in his seat, his eyes wandering around the dimly lit bar as he processed the new information. “Well shit,” he said finally. “I had no idea you knew so much about other packs.”

Derek shrugged. “Most of what I know is history. My folks,” he paused for a second to push past the twinge of pain he felt when talking about them, “they thought it was important to learn about werewolf history and culture in tandem with human history and culture. I couldn’t tell you what’s been going on in werewolf politics for the last several years, but I can tell you about pretty much any time before I was born.”

“Huh. I am so going to pick your brain about this at some point.” Stiles stared at him for a moment and then sat forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say. Wish I’d known years ago that all it took to loosen your tongue was a couple wolfsbane beers.”

“Sorry.”

Derek ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed. It’d been a long time since he’d been anywhere close to drunk, but he knew that his chattiness had a direct positive correlation to the amount he of wolfsbane-laced alcohol he imbibed. After a couple glasses, Derek was currently hovering around “functional conversationalist,” which was definitely a step up from his usual “reticent grunter.”

Stiles’ hand covering his made him look up. “Don’t be sorry, dude. Just because I ramble a lot doesn’t mean that I don’t like to listen too. Especially when someone has something interesting to say.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Vern bustled over to their table, two beers and a basket of curly fries in his hands. Stiles squeezed his hand before pulling away, but even after the touch was gone, Derek’s skin tingled.

“Here ya’ go,” Vern said, setting down the beers and sliding the basket of fries into the middle of the table. “Enjoy, boys.”

The bartender winked at them before lumbering away, and Derek groaned.

“Thanks Vern!” Stiles called, right before shoving a handful of fries in his mouth.

Derek took a more polite sized bite.

“So where was I?” Stiles continued, once he’d finished chewing, “Oh, right! Paul Marquez, the Alpha of the area around Rice, approached me and introduced himself. He told me about Deaton contacting him and giving him a heads up that I would be in the area and that I was part of the Hale-McCall pack from Beacon Hills – “

“Hale-McCall?” Derek interrupted. He hadn’t intended to sidetrack Stiles again, but he couldn’t help it.

Stiles paused and fidgeted in his seat for a moment. “Er, yeah. I know you haven’t really been around very much and I don’t even know if you still consider yourself _pack_ , but we thought…” Stiles winced, “I mean, _I_ _thought_ that we should keep your family name because Beacon Hills has been your family’s territory for the past hundred and sixty some-odd years, plus,” Stiles shrugged, “there wouldn’t even be a pack without you. Sure Peter bit Scott, but if you hadn’t been around and by some miracle we managed to – er, _deal_ with Peter without getting ourselves killed, then it would still just be Scotty and me. So even though it was rough for a while, and you made some mistakes, we still owe you a lot. I just convinced the others –“

“You mean Scott.”

“Okay yeah, I mean Scott. Mostly. And a couple of his new Betas. But the rest were on board. I convinced him that even though he’s taken the position as Alpha, we’re all still Hales – or at least we’re still the Hale Pack.”

Derek sat in stunned silence, just mulling over the information dump he’d received. The consideration Stiles had put into something as simple as the pack name and the fact that he’d wanted to keep Derek’s family name despite no blood relations touched him in a way that he wasn’t sure he understood. 

Stiles pulled his arms across his abdomen in a familiar gesture of unease. “I just thought it’d be a nice way to honor those that came before us, and kind of thank you for what you’ve done. But if you don’t want us to use your family name, I can totally understand. I mean, we’re still just kind of a rag-tag bunch and your family has a long, kind of regal history, so if you don’t want us besmirching your family – “

“No!” Derek said finally. “It’s fine. You can use it. I just. It’s, uh, it’s…”

Stiles’ position relaxed and he shot Derek a small smile. “Thanks, dude.”

Derek shook his head slowly, staring at the table, still buried in his emotional turmoil. “No, Stiles. I think I should be thanking you.”

A flush climbed Stiles’ neck and they both sat silently for several seconds. Finally, Derek cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, I interrupted you again. You were talking about meeting Paul?”

“Right! Although, before I get back into the story, just so you know, this kind of disjointed, rabbit-hole conversation is kind of nice.” Stiles glanced down at where his finger was spreading the ring of condensation around his glass into abstract designs. “Most people get conversational tunnel-vision and get frustrated when I veer off on a tangent or ask a semi-unrelated question, so I’m enjoying your ability to follow and keep up with my sudden bunny-trails.”

“Not all the bunny-trails are yours.”

“True.” Stiles nodded. “So once I met Paul, he invited me to sit in on their pack meetings if I was interested. He mentioned that they had an Emissary who would be thrilled to meet me, so I started attending their weekly pack meetings, met their Emissary, who’s a total bad-ass, bee-tee-dubs, and she started teaching me a little more about my Spark.”

Derek scoured his brain for the name of the Marquez Pack’s Emissary. “Is Odette Thompson still the Emissary?”

Stiles almost choked on his mouthful of curly fries. “ ‘Ou ‘ow ‘er?”

“Not personally. I think my mom met her once. She’s got to be ancient by now, considering she was old when I was a kid.”

The younger man nodded, taking a sip of his beer to clear his airway before answering. “Yeah, I think she’s like ninety-four. But she still kicks ass and knows, like, everything. No joke. I almost thought I’d walked through a worm-hole and ended up in the future, because Odette is pretty much Lydia in seventy years.”

Derek chuckled.

“So I started working with Odette and she started training me in magic, which was _nothing_ like I imagined, let me just say. _Harry Potter_ spreads dirty lies. There’s nothing fanciful or fun about learning magic. It’s exhausting and sometimes boring, and there’s a hell of a lot of studying involved. Harry and Ron should have totally flunked out of Hogwarts with how much they didn’t study. In fact, the whole school, except maybe Hermione, should have flunked. It’s no wonder there were idiots running the Ministry of Magic, when Hogwarts was churning out mediocre – “

“Training with Odette?” Derek said, interrupting Stiles’ sudden tirade.

“Oh, right. Like I said, I trained in magic with Odette, but she also included me in some of her Emissary duties, which meant I got to go to the council meetings, and even took a few trips with her to mediate for other packs. Most of the trips were uneventful. The packs just wanted an outside party to sit in on the negotiations so if there was an issue and the two groups couldn’t come to an agreement, they could defer to the decision of the mediator. It only happened a couple times, and each time both sides courteously accepted Odette’s decision, even if they weren’t happy about it.”

Stiles paused in his recollection to take a long drink from his beer.

“All of that brings me to the story of one trip that Odette and I took between my sophomore and junior year. Paul had been contacted by two separate Packs in Tennessee who were looking for an experienced and unbiased mediator and they’d heard good things about Odette. So we headed out to Tennessee, but instead of just her and me, like it usually was, Paul had sent a few Betas with us. It’s normally considered rude to send members of the mediator’s Pack with them, which you might already know, but Paul was insistent and Odette was oddly agreeable, so I knew something was up.

“It got even weirder when we arrived, because instead of staying in a hotel, we had to camp. It turned out that the Packs lived out in a remote area of the Appalachians, and they were so far from town that it was impractical to commute back and forth, so we had to hike three hours into the mountains before we finally reached the campground that both Packs approved of.

“The first night we were there, you could hear them howling. And fighting. We were camped exactly halfway between the two Packs’ communities and on both sides, a few miles away, you could hear them snarling and yowling and throwing each other into trees…”

Derek frowned. He’d heard stories about some of the packs out in the Appalachians, but he’d never visited them and he didn’t know how much of it was truth and how much was hyperbole. There were several old ‘wolf families that lived in the mountains and the rumors about warring packs and blood feuds that spanned decades were common. Derek had once heard Peter call them the “Hatfields and McCoys, but bloodier” when talking about the eastern packs’ rivalries.

“I was squashed between Adam and Wes in one tent, Trent and Joe and Odette were in the other, and even though there were four huge ‘wolves with us, I barely slept that night. The next day, one member from each Pack came by and dropped off a binder with a thorough history of the relationship between the Packs. It documented everything. Like, every single drop of spilled blood between the two for the last fifty years, up to and including the skirmishes we had heard the night before.

“Obviously each account was biased in favor of the Pack that provided it, but we spent two days going through both of them and figuring out where the facts agreed and where they deviated, and then we spent a full day with each Pack separately, trying to fill in some of the gaps.

“After that, we had the two Packs meet on somewhat neutral ground. There was an abandoned property along the boundary lines of the two territories, about half a mile from our camp, and they had been fighting over it for quite a while. There was a barn that was in pretty decent shape, so we dragged the kitchen table from the house into the barn and used it as conference room.”

Stiles gaze was unfocused as he spoke, and Derek imagined that Stiles was seeing the memories flash in front of his eyes, reliving the experience as he recounted it for Derek.

“It took two weeks. The first two days were the roughest and involved bloodshed. A few Betas went after each other and Odette’s Pack was going to jump in and pull the others apart, but she told them not to. We just stood up and moved away from the table and the fighting and let the two groups tear at each other until the Alphas called them off. The third day it looked like it was getting ready to happen again, but both Josiah and Samuel, the Alphas, stepped in and told their Betas to behave. I’m guessing there was an implied ‘or else’ because we didn’t have a problem after that.

“Well, there _were_ a few times where someone lunged at us after we made a decision they didn’t like, but they didn’t touch us or each other. I, of course, flinched each time. And fell out of my chair once. But Odette was downright stony, dude. The lady’s over ninety years old, with an angry, shifted werewolf coming at her and she _doesn’t fucking move_. Just stares at the bastard until he slinks back into his chair.”

Derek found himself smiling at the image of Stiles falling out of his chair next to the old woman who gave zero fucks.

“Anyway, after the treaty was signed, both Alphas had something they wanted us to see. We agreed to go with Josiah first, and Josiah invites Samuel too, so it’s just our group and the two previously warring Alphas and we all follow Josiah through the woods until we reach a clearing. It was a graveyard. There were dozens of headstones, _dozens_ , and as I got closer, I noticed that a lot of them had died way too young. Our age, some a few years younger, some a few years older…”

Stiles paused and Derek saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed a couple times. His voice was reedier when he continued.

“And of course, I’m completely floored. I’m trying to process all this and Samuel speaks up and tells us that he really needs to show us something too, so we all trail after him, including Josiah, and about a mile from Josiah’s Pack’s graveyard is another graveyard. There’s even more headstones and just like the others, a good chunk of them are young people. Samuel’s Pack and Josiah’s Pack, despite having hundreds of acres of territory each, both ended up placing their cemeteries less than a mile apart.

“There had to be two hundred people buried in those mountains all because of a spat seventy-five years ago that no one could let go of. And all I could think about was how meaningless all those deaths were and how many lives were cut short because of something that wasn’t even their fault, and that made me think about everything that went on in Beacon Hills and I know a lot of the death and tragedy couldn’t be avoided even with a mediator, but what if we could have saved even one more life if there’d been someone to help you and Scott negotiate and learn to work together? Would we have been able to deal with the Alpha Pack more effectively? What about the Kanima? Or Gerard? If we hadn’t been too busy fighting each other…”

Stiles was staring into his empty glass but his gaze was distant.

And God, did Derek know exactly what he was talking about. He’d hashed and rehashed the same exact thoughts, wondering if things might have turned out differently had he been able to work better with Scott, if he’d been nicer, if he’d been able to lay his own ego and guilt aside long enough to work together, if he’d been able to give Chris and Allison the benefit of the doubt instead of branding them as the enemy. It had taken months of twice-weekly therapy to finally start to move forward. Derek was still working on learning to accept that he’d never know what _might_ have happened, but the earthmover on his chest that he’d carried around since he was 16 had lessened significantly. There were still periods where he felt like he couldn’t breathe, like the heavy machinery had returned with a vengeance, but as time went on, those instances were fewer and farther-between.

“I want to help people,” Stiles mumbled into his glass, still not looking at Derek. “I’ve seen so much shit, and I’ve dealt with so much interspecies animosity, hell, even disputes between groups of the same species, that I thought maybe I could work as like – I don’t know, maybe a professional mediator. Some sort of neutral third party to help negotiate and keep the peace, and maybe prevent a few senseless deaths…” Stiles gave a half-hearted shrug. “It sounds kind of stupid when I say it out loud, but – “

“It’s not stupid.” The vehemence in Derek’s voice surprised himself.

Stiles looked up at him, head still pointed down towards the table, but his amber eyes were bright underneath long lashes. The cautiously hopeful look on his face made him look years younger.

“It’s definitely not stupid,” Derek said again, setting down his pencil and draining the last of his beer. “There’s a lot of tension and distrust between the creatures of the supernatural, both deserved and not. But if there’s anything I learned from my time in Beacon Hills, it’s that maybe it’s time to give up those ill-informed and preconceived biases and start working together.”

Stiles was worrying his bottom lip and Derek stared for a few moments before straightening in his seat a bit and continuing.

“As far as I know, there’s never been a place, or group, or institution that has actively worked towards facilitating peace between supernatural factions.”

“Why not?”

Derek didn’t answer, just watched him with a look that said _think, Stiles_. They sat in silence for several minutes, allowing Derek’s eyes to wander the crowded room, idly scanning for threats and escape routes before finally being drawn back to the man in front of him. Derek picked his pencil back up and returned to his drawing, getting so wrapped up that he didn’t notice Vern had brought two more beers until the condensation puddled around the bottom of the new glass crept towards his sketchbook. Derek was in the middle of using a few napkins to mop up the puddle on the table when Stiles finally spoke.

“The fifth horseman.”

Derek looked up to meet his eyes, surprised. “Yeah.”

Stiles tilted his head a bit, a look between surprise and confusion on his face. “You read Montagu and Matson’s work?”

Derek finished mopping up the puddle and set the wet napkins aside. “Not the whole thing. I used pieces of it in a paper I wrote for my sociology class in college. That particular piece about dehumanization being the fifth horseman stuck with me though.”

“It _was_ catchy,” Stiles agreed. “And I guess as far as peace and equality for all go, humanity doesn’t have a leg to stand on. We’ve been treating each other like shit since the beginning of time, and while werewolves aren’t using pixies as slave labor,” Stiles gives Derek a playfully suspicious side-eye, “at least as far as I know, and druids aren’t pushing a mass genocide of centaurs, they’re still far from considering each other equals.”

Stiles continued to talk, his usual hand gestures growing noticeably more languid as his drink disappeared, and Derek listened, enjoying the undulations of his voice and the spark of excitement that always seemed to accompany the chance to teach someone something. Derek had made it halfway through his – third? fourth? – beer by the time Stiles trailed off, and he could definitely feel the pleasant buzz of intoxication in his veins. Having Stiles across from him, his familiar scent saturating the air around them, his eyes twinkling, laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes might also have had something to do with his buzz, but Derek had reached the point of inebriation where that particular thought didn’t scare him nearly as much as it usually did. 

“Sorry,” Stiles said. “I still get a little carried away sometimes. It probably still drives you nuts, huh?”

“I’m glad we bumped into each other,” Derek said apropos of nothing; his brain-to-mouth filter had obviously taken an alcohol-induced holiday. “I mean,” he stuttered, “It never drove me nuts. Your rambling was kind of annoying at first, but that was a long, long time ago.”

“Really?” The smile on Stiles’ face made the flush on Derek’s cheeks totally worth it.

“I actually, uh, I like it. At least, when you’re talking about something with…with…” Derek searched his brain for the right word, but couldn’t find it. “When you’re not talking about superfluous shit.”

Stiles was in the middle of taking a drink and Derek’s comment made him snort, causing a short spray of beer from between his lips and a dribble down his chin. He swallowed quickly and let out a cross between a laugh and a cough while he wiped at his chin.

“I always learn something when I talk to you.”

****

The easy smile on Stiles’ face mirrored the one Derek was sure was on his own face. A few soft moments passed.

“Y’all want another round?”

Vern had materialized by their table to collect their empty glasses again. Derek glanced at Stiles and raised his eyebrows in a silent inquiry. Stiles shrugged and gave Derek a look that read _why not?_

“Sure,” Derek answered. “And put his drinks on my tab.”

From the corner of his eye, Derek saw Stiles open his mouth as if to protest, but snapped it closed again before he could say anything.

“Not a problem,” Vern told him. He wiped up the stray drops of beer from Stiles’ earlier incident, and then flashed them both a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles finally spoke after Vern had disappeared.

“Thank you.”

Derek nodded an acknowledgement.

A sudden whoop from across the bar pulled both men’s attention to the guy at the jukebox. A familiar tune began to play and within a few seconds, there were a dozen people gathered in the small area near the jukebox that was cleared of tables.

When Derek looked back at Stiles, Stiles’ lips were pulled into a wide smile, his gorgeous amber eyes twinkling in the dim lighting. When the younger man’s hand grabbed his, Derek’s stomach swooped.

“Come on.”

Stiles stood up and tugged Derek’s hand in an attempt to tow him along.

“What?” he asked stupidly.

“Let’s dance!”

Derek’s protests about not knowing how to dance or not wanting to dance went out the window when Stiles turned his eager expression on him, and he found himself being tugged into the mix of bodies on the dance floor.

“Come on, Der. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to do the _Boot Scootin’ Boogie_!” Stiles laughed, easily falling into step with the rest of the dancers.

Derek rolled his eyes, but fell into step beside Stiles, following the back and forth, forward and back steps easily. Derek might have been raised by ‘wolves, but he did go to high school, and the song was a staple at school dances. Halfway through the song, Derek realized he was grinning and his eyes hadn’t left Stiles. He watched the man dance, his steps sure, and a playfulness to his movements that was just so _Stiles_ that it made his heart thump solidly in his chest. Stiles began to embellish the steps as the song went on, adding a few extra spins, swinging his hips a little more, and occasionally glancing over to catch Derek’s eye. Each time he did, it caused a flutter in his gut, somewhere between his sternum and navel.

As that song ended, a woman’s voice called out, “don’t go anywhere yet, folks!” and the sound of another quarter dropping into the jukebox was followed by the opening notes of _Copperhead Road._ It had been an even longer time since he’d done that line dance, and he tripped over his own feet a couple times bumping into Stiles and making him laugh. The third time he stumbled, Derek laughed with Stiles as the younger man threw his arm over his shoulders.

It occurred to Derek at some point that Stiles was _graceful_. Despite the broad, exaggerated motions of his hands and arms when he spoke, there was a new smoothness to the gestures. There weren’t any odd twitches or jerks, no swinging elbows or floppy wrists; the generalized flailing that had seemed Stiles’ main means of communication was gone. In its place was the hypnotizing balletic finesse of a man who’d finally grown into his long limbs with self-awareness and self-confidence. 

Halfway through _Cotton-Eyed Joe_ , Stiles touched his elbow and made a gesture indicating he needed a drink. Derek nodded an assent and followed him back to their table where two full glasses sat in rings of condensation. They picked up their respective glasses and Derek leaned back against the table while Stiles propped an arm on the back of the booth.

Derek drained half his glass as he watched the rest of the dancers. The group radiated joy, and despite the wolfsbane in his drink and the wards, Derek could smell it from clear across the room. Each person’s scent was a bit different than the rest, but all of them were sweet and bright, and the blend of all of them together reminded Derek of a garden in full bloom. It overpowered the usual aroma of grease, sweat, and beer.

He and Stiles both finished their drinks during the last chorus of _Fishin’ in the Dark_ , and after setting his glass on the table, Stiles moved to stand beside Derek, leaning back against the table with him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. The slight, barely-there contact sent a zip of electricity down his spine, which surprised him. It had been a long time, a _very_ long time, since he’d had that kind of reaction to anyone. Derek was so distracted by it that he almost missed the slight uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat and the faint bitterness in his scent.

Derek turned his head to speak into Stiles’ ear and caught a stronger whiff of bitterness, but now it had a tinge of sweetness too; it reminded him of bittersweet chocolate.

“You okay?”

Stiles was still watching the dancefloor, his eyes a bit glassy, but he didn’t move as he answered.

“My mom used to love this song. For a long time, my dad and I couldn’t bear to listen to it.”

Derek had been so focused on Stiles that he hadn’t realized the music had changed. The last line dancing song had petered out and in its place was a song that caused Derek’s heart to trip too: _The Dance_ by Garth Brooks.

It took a few painful seconds to pull himself together, but when he did, Derek found himself answering in a thick croak, “My mom did too.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I haven’t heard it since…”

Stiles turned his head to look at him, and Derek realized they were so close that he could count Stiles’ eyelashes. Instead, he found his gaze arrested by the warm cider irises underneath. His eyes were open wide and his pupils were dilated in the darkness, looking at him with a softness and vulnerability that Derek had never been privy to in the past.

Their relationship had always been complicated, even before Derek had started to notice the distinct flare of _desire_ , a spicy-sweet cinnamon smell like Hot Tamales candy, that came from Stiles whenever they were alone. They were always arguing, bickering, getting under each other’s skin, and they were angry or irritated with each other more often than not. But what he’d come to realize as time went on, was that the reason he and Stiles were constantly butting heads was because Derek was trying to protect Stiles, with little regard for his own safety, and Stiles was doing the exact same thing for him. They were both trying to throw themselves on the metaphorical grenade in order to protect the other.

“Since?” Stiles murmured.

“Before the fire.” The words were rough, choked out, and Derek’s chest tightened painfully. He closed his eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the table to keep the sharp points of pain in the tips of his fingers from manifesting into claws. “She picked me up from basketball practice the day before. It – “ Derek paused to take a deep breath and force his fangs back under his gums, “It was playing on the way home. I remember,” and _fuck_ , he could still remember it like it was yesterday, even after all these years, “she was singing along. She couldn’t carry a tune, but she didn’t care. She liked to sing.”

Derek wasn’t sure whether he leaned in, or whether Stiles did, but their foreheads pressed together, and then Stiles’ hand was sliding over his where it still had the table in a death grip. Stiles wrapped his long fingers around Derek’s hand, gently coaxing it up until he could get Derek to let go of the table. As soon as he did, Stiles’ fingers slipped between his, and their palms pressed together. Stiles squeezed. The pressure was grounding, reassuring, and it loosened the invisible band around Derek’s ribs.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. All he knew was that Stiles presence provided more comfort than he’d known since he was a pup curled against his mother’s chest while she read him a bedtime story, or rocked him to sleep after a bad dream. Derek felt _safe_ with Stiles.

“Come on,” Stiles said eventually, straightening up. “Let’s make a less painful memory for both of us.”

Derek opened his eyes and allowed Stiles to tug him away from the table. Stiles led him to the edge of the dancefloor, where he just readjusted his grip on Derek’s hand and stepped into Derek’s personal space, his other hand coming to rest on Derek’s bicep as Derek’s free hand settled on Stiles’ waist. It felt all too natural when Stiles leaned in as they began to dance.

There were a few inches between their bodies, keeping them close, but not too close, as they continued to skirt the edge of something that Derek suddenly felt they’d been heading towards all along. _And hell_ , Derek thought, _if they were going to do this, then damn it, they should do it right_.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist and pulled him flush against his chest so he could dip his head and press his nose into the hair at Stiles’ temple. He inhaled deeply, welcoming the brief vertigo as Stiles’ scent flooded every single olfactory receptor he possessed. Stiles’ hand on his arm slid to his shoulder and across to the neck of his shirt. Derek couldn’t stop the rumble in his chest as Stiles’ fingers swept lightly up the bare skin on the side of his neck. Finally his hand came to rest on the back of Derek’s neck with Stiles’ thumb absently stroking back and forth just under his hairline.

The feather-light caress sent electricity racing down Derek’s spine, raising gooseflesh along his arms, as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

Derek took another deep breath, this time paying closer attention to all the chemosignals woven through the distinctive _Stiles_ scent. He could smell the lingering _melancholy_ from a couple minutes before, _contentment_ wrapped around it, permeated with _joy_ and hints of _arousal_. But there was no _anxiety_. No _worry_. No _fear_.

Stiles’ cheek brushed against his, his dark stubble catching on smooth skin, as Stiles shifted position to tuck his face into Derek’s neck. He felt the younger man’s chest expand as Stiles pulled in a deep breath.

“God, you always smelled so good,” Stiles murmured, his breath warm against Derek’s skin. “I mean, I don’t even have ‘wolfy senses, but still…”

Had Derek not been drinking, he probably would have kept his mouth shut. Then again, had he not been drinking, he probably would have avoided the decisions that led to him ending up on a dancefloor with his arms full of Stiles. As it was, he _had_ been drinking, so he answered.

“I’ve always loved the way you smell.”

Derek felt Stiles smile against his neck, sending another zip of electricity across his skin. “Yeah?”

Derek didn’t answer, just growled lowly as he tightened his grip on the human. His mind raced back in time, pulling forward memories of fighting, and terror, and loss, punctuated with snarky comments and large amber eyes. He’d been so angry back then, so broken, and while he took most of it out on himself, he had found himself lashing out at the teen too. Stiles’ mere presence had rubbed up against Derek in a way that made him acutely uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly a size too small, and Derek didn’t have the maturity or patience to figure out why. That unaddressed agitation just made him angrier, leaving him generally grouchy and short-tempered with everyone, but with Stiles more than anyone.

And yet despite slamming him into walls and doors, threatening to tear his throat out, and constantly telling him to shut-up, Stiles had always been there. It was Stiles that Derek would go to when he was wounded; it was his knowledge and advice that Derek would seek out; and it was his bedroom that Derek would stumble into after a long, exhausting night when he didn’t want to go home. And Stiles never turned him away.

The jukebox cycled forward to the next song, but neither man made a move to pull away as a twangy-voiced female artist began to lament over her lost love.

“You know,” Stiles said thoughtfully, his voice so low that only Derek’s enhanced ears could hear him, “if we were at any other dive bar in Texas, we’d probably be getting nasty looks and possibly even threats of bodily harm. We might’ve even had to kick some ass by now.”

Derek snorted. “ _We_?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an affronted sputter, _Skeptic-wolf_. I’ll have you know that I can hold my own these days.”

“I have no doubt,” Derek said seriously, before adding in a lighter tone, “Besides, you don’t have to do something as outrageous as slow dancing with a man in a red-state, blue-collar bar in order to invite trouble. Trouble has a standing reservation with you no matter where you are or what you’re doing.”

Stiles squawked and pulled his hand from Derek’s neck to smack his chest.

“Jerk,” he muttered.

“Bitch.” The response was out of Derek’s mouth before he could stop it.

Stiles froze and Derek loosened his grip on him, panic beginning to fill his belly as he pulled away. Shit. He didn’t even know if Stiles would –

“I’m clearly way drunker than I thought, because I could swear that I just heard Derek Hale make a ‘Supernatural’ reference, and a shockingly accurate one at that.”

The panic eased significantly, but it left behind a tinge of embarrassment.

“I mean, I am the brains of the operation, after all. And I’ve got the socially awkward personality down pat. But you’re definitely the attractive and self-sacrificing brawn. You’ve got the brooding and the man-pain and the leather jacket, and even the sexy car!”

Stiles paused for half a second to catch his breath but Derek couldn’t come up with anything to say to interrupt him, so Stiles continued down his bunny-trail as Derek shifted awkwardly in front of him.

“And now your ears are pink. Yup, I’ve definitely had too much to drink. Because – oh hey, that rhymed! Pink! Drink! – there is no universe which might exist in which Derek Hale watches ‘Supernatural’ and gets self-conscious about it. Unless I’m hallucinating, which I might be if there was wolfs-“

Derek finally laid a hand over Stiles’ mouth, silencing him. “Stiles,” he said. “Shut up.”

Stiles’ eyes glittered and Derek could feel his lips twist up into a grin against his palm. Stiles touched the back of Derek’s hand over his mouth, and Derek let it fall away so the younger man could speak again.

“Nevermind. That’s definitely my Sourwolf,” Stiles said, voice uncharacteristically tender.

Derek’s stomach flip-flopped. He didn’t know whether it was from the affectionate nickname or the possessive pronoun, but Stiles was smiling at him as he stepped forward again and Derek’s hands found the man’s hips almost instinctively, both of his thumbs slipping just under the edge of his t-shirt to stroke the warm, soft skin underneath. Derek was halfway through taking a step closer when Vern’s voice startled them.

“Last call, folks! We’re closin’ in fifteen minutes!”

Derek’s hands fell from Stiles’ hips and they both took a half-step backwards as they turned to look towards the bar. Vern was grinning and standing on a stool behind the counter so he could address the bar patrons.

“I appreciate y’all comin’ by tonight, but it’s time to skedaddle. You don’t gotta go home, but y’all can’t stay here!”

Vern gave the crowd a friendly salute and then stepped off the stool.

****

“It can’t possibly be that late already,” Stiles said checking his phone as they both headed back to their booth.

The time shone bright in the dark bar: 11:48.

“I thought last call wasn’t until 2 AM in Texas. Unless there’s a county ordinance or something.”

“It’s a small town, so there’s not a whole lot of nightlife,” Derek shrugged. “And Vern has a wife and twin cubs that he likes to see every day, so he closes early enough to get home and get a full night’s sleep so he can take the cubs to school in the morning.”

“Decent fellow, this Vern.”

Derek nodded and realized that their night was coming to an end, and the closer it got, the more he found that he didn’t want to say goodbye quite yet. At some point the aforementioned bartender had come by and replaced their empty glasses with a leather book. Derek picked it up, removed his credit card, and signed the receipt, tacking on a tip that was even more gracious than he normally left. He didn’t miss the way Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and closed it again.

Derek slung his backpack over his shoulder before he turned to look at the younger man.

“So,” Stiles said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“Where are you staying?”

Derek’s stomach turned over as Stiles’ eyes widened. “Oh, uh, I figured I’d just – “ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in a motion that told Derek he probably hadn’t intended to stay for as long as he did.

“You’re in no condition to drive. You can stay at my place tonight.”

Even with his supernatural senses dampened by the wards of the bar, Derek heard the uptick in Stiles’ pulse. A small smile quirked his lips and for a moment, Derek braced himself for a biting retort about whether he was living another abandoned train station or if he’d upgraded to a dilapidated barn loft. To his surprise, Stiles just blushed a bit and nodded.

“Thanks.”

The gentleness and sincerity was so far removed from the Stiles he knew previously, that he wondered if the man following him out onto the sidewalk in front of the bar was actually Stiles or some clever doppelganger.

“You know,” Stiles said as the door closed behind them, “if you keep wearing your confused eyebrows, they’ll get stuck like that.”

Derek tried to hide his snort of amusement, but judging from the twinkle in Stiles’ eyes, he wasn’t successful.

“So which way?”

Derek turned and started down the sidewalk. Stiles fell into easy step beside him. They walked mostly in silence, surrounded by the warm night air, the whine of cicadas, and the fading clamor of bar patrons heading home. The lights from storefronts and street lamps waned as they rounded a corner, walked a few blocks, and crossed the train tracks.

“I feel as though I should have asked how far away you lived before agreeing to this,” Stiles chuckled softly as they were about a mile down one of the many numbered two-lane highways. He bumped his shoulder into Derek’s companionably and Derek’s hand reached out to grasp Stiles’ reflexively.

“It’s just another mile or so,” he answered.

Stiles hummed an acknowledgement and then carefully slipped his fingers between Derek’s. They continued to stroll down the deserted highway, hands swinging easily between them, both spending more time looking up at the sky than at the road in front of them.

The inky darkness that stretched overhead, marred only by a few thin clouds, was splashed with millions of stars; bright, winking pinpricks of light that helped the waxing moon illuminate the night. It was a sight that never ceased to amaze and humble Derek, and since moving out into the countryside, he’d spent countless hours laying in a hammock, staring at the expanse above him, and taking comfort in his insignificance in the universe.

Neither one spoke until they were in front of a gate.

“This is it.”

Derek reluctantly let go of Stiles’ hand and then swung himself lightly over the short, wooden fence.

“Watch out for Vlad,” Derek told him, nodding at the cactus nearby, as Stiles climbed over fence.

“You named your cactus ‘Vlad’?” he snorted, taking a step towards Derek and stumbling. “As in ‘Vlad the Impaler’?”

Derek caught Stiles by the elbow, preventing him from face planting. “No. I just thought a Slavic name would be fitting for a plant that doesn’t even grow on the Eurasian continent.”

Stiles laughed as Derek led him through the darkness, their hands linked. “Well how should I know what goes through your head? For all I know, Vlad is the name of your prickly garbage man that you’ve had an ongoing feud with over whether the garbage cans should be placed upside down or right-side up after they’re emptied, and you just named the poor _Cactaceae_ out of spite.”

Derek was just about to make a stupidly sentimental comment like ‘you’re the only one who ever knows what I’m thinking’, but was saved by a couple barks from his porch. Derek answered with a short whistle. Stiles’ hand tightened on his as he beamed at Derek in the darkness.

“You have a dog?” he asked, nearly vibrating in his excitement.

Derek shrugged. “He was a stray and decided to adopt me as his owner. And who was I to turn down such a handsome face?”

The animal in question hopped off the porch swing, nails clicking on the wood as he trotted down the porch steps and then loped over to meet the pair. Stiles dropped Derek’s hand and crouched. For a moment, Derek was worried about how his dog would take to Stiles. His breed was naturally wary of strangers and very protective over their family, but they also tended to be excellent judges of character, which the animal proved when he sniffed at Stiles’ hand a few times and then threw himself forward, tail wagging so hard it made his butt sway.

“Hey there, dude!” he cooed as the canine continued to sniff him and then licked his face. “What’s your name, handsome?”

Derek watched the younger man’s long fingers fumble with the tag on the dog’s collar, his eyes squinting through the darkness to read it. Derek could tell exactly when he was successful because Stiles fell backwards onto his butt and laughed.

“Oh my God!” he gasped, scratching the dog behind his ears while he continued to hoot. “Remy LeBeau? Seriously?”

Derek shrugged as Stiles picked himself up off the ground, brushing absently at the seat of his pants. “He’s a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard Dog,” he said, as if that was explanation enough.

“I’m really tempted to harass you about being a closet nerd, but since I get the reference, that would make me a nerd too, so…”

They climbed the stairs to the porch, where Stiles collapsed onto the middle of the swing with a contented sigh. He patted the seat next to him and Remy hopped up next to him, flopping down with his head in the younger man’s lap. Derek set his bag by the front door and then sat down in the empty space on the other side of Stiles, pushing off with one foot to give the swing a little motion.

They sat in the darkness, looking up at the stars as they rocked slowly, Stiles absently stroking Remy’s head. After a few minutes, Stiles slouched against Derek’s shoulder, and Derek didn’t think twice about lifting his arm and pulling the younger man closer, his fingertips tracing small abstract shapes against the skin of his arm, just under his t-shirt sleeve.

There was a gentle buzz, almost a soft hum, under Derek’s skin and it took longer than it probably should have to realize that it wasn’t caused by the remaining wolfsbane still in his system. For the first time since the night of the fire, Derek was completely at peace.

There was no threat, real or imagined, lingering in the back of his mind; he didn’t have betas or other pack members to worry about keeping safe; and he had finally removed the guilt and self-loathing he’d worn for so many years. In their place were more mundane, less deadly concerns, like remembering to call a client back or wondering if he had enough clean underwear to put off doing laundry for another week.

“I hope you’re not brooding over there,” Stiles said eventually, his tone quietly teasing while the hand not on Remy’s head reached back to blindly grope his face.

Derek huffed a soft laugh as he caught Stiles’ hand and pressed a kiss to his palm.

“Definitely not brooding,” he murmured, lips brushing the soft skin of his hand.

Without the wards of the bar, Derek clearly heard Stiles’ heart as it skipped and caught the spicy flare of arousal. “Oh,” he breathed. “Good.”

Silence settled over them again as Stiles yawned.

“Come on,” Derek said finally, straightening up. “It’s late.”

Stiles grumbled to himself but didn’t resist. He nudged the dog’s head off his leg and then stood up, stretching his arms over his head as he yawned again. Derek’s eyes lingered on the strip of bare skin between Stiles’ t-shirt and his jeans as he stretched and the tantalizing thatch of hair that trailed down into the waistband of his pants.

“Coming?” Stiles asked, scratching absently at his stomach.

Derek couldn’t get his tongue to work properly, so he nodded mutely. As he stood up, he tried to discreetly adjust himself in his jeans, which had grown a bit more restricting since he’d put them on earlier this evening. Stiles didn’t seem to notice from where he was leaning against the front door, eyes closed, with a soft smile on his lips. Derek took a moment to stare.

He was beautiful in the moonlight, all sharp angles and glowing skin, littered with spots so dark, they looked like tiny, endless universes embedded in his flesh. Derek yearned to lose himself in them, one-by-one, and explore the vast reaches of the space inside, to learn everything he possibly could about the man in front of him, and then he wanted to map those universes across the surface of his skin with his tongue, tracing constellations until the only stars left were the ones in his eyes.

Derek hadn’t realized he’d moved until Stiles’ eyes fluttered open and they were staring at each other, barely a foot apart. Stiles straightened up a little, and Derek couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking down to Stiles lips as he shifted even closer, bracing his hands against the door on either side of Stiles’ head. They were so close that Derek could almost _feel_ the quick, but steady beat of the other man’s heart despite the empty space between them, and his nerve endings were beginning tingle with the ghostly sensation of contact that hadn’t yet been made. He let his eyes sink shut as he inhaled deeply, only then realizing how shallow his breathing had gotten.

The concentrated scent of _Stiles_ flooded his nose. It was the same earthy and familiar aroma that he’d always had, but it was sharpened by the _desire_ that permeated it, twice as much as when he was a teenager and somehow deeper, more complex. Derek shivered.

God, it had been a long time since he’d smelled someone’s attraction to him and not been instantly turned off. It had been even longer since he’d had sex or attempted a relationship. And it had been longer still since the scent of one person had smelled like _home_.

It was that last thought that made his chest crack open, made him feel like his insides were tumbling out of his body, like he was _dying_ , but in the most freeing and exhilarating way possible. He couldn’t understand how something so painful could feel so good.

“Hey, Der,” Stiles’ words were hardly a breath.

Gentle hands cupped his face, thumbs stroking softly across his cheekbones. Derek forced his eyes open to meet Stiles’ gaze. It was the only acknowledgement he could give.

“There you are.”

The affectionate smile on his lips made Derek’s chest split wider and he blinked hard to keep his watery eyes from spilling.

“What’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away from the beautiful whiskey eyes in front of him as he tried to figure out how to explain, how he could possibly describe the impact of his realization, which had surged up so unexpectedly that it had knocked his feet out from under him and left him adrift in a veritable sea of churning emotions, and how the only anchor that was keeping him from being completely swept under the current was standing in front of him. But he realized it didn’t matter, because Stiles had asked him what was _wrong_ not what was _right_.

“Nothing,” he answered truthfully, voice thick, “for the first time in my life, there’s absolutely nothing wrong.”

The smile he received was so blinding, it left white spots in his vision.

The moment hung between them for only a few seconds, tension stretching deliciously tight before snapping, a metaphorical beat drop.

Derek had no idea who moved first, but Stiles’ lips were soft and his kiss was firm, mouth pressing insistently against Derek’s while his hands slid further back on Derek’s face until long fingers were in his hair and thumbs brushed at sensitive skin just behind the hinge of his jaw. The gentleness of the touch sent Derek’s heart stumbling forward before it picked up its pace.

They kissed once, twice, three times, before Derek ran his tongue along Stiles’ bottom lip and Stiles’ willingly obliged the silent request, sweeping his own tongue into Derek’s mouth and making his breath catch. He could taste their curly fries from earlier, overlaid by the hops-heavy beer, but underneath all of it he could taste _Stiles_. He tasted like sunshine and warmth, laughter and snark, all stirred together like a soup, with a stock made of loyalty.

“W-wow, that was – “ Stiles gasped as they both pulled away to breathe for a moment.

Derek chuckled lowly. “Yeah.”

Stiles’ head dropped back against the door as he grinned. “Awesome.”

The movement exposed his neck, and Derek’s eyes were immediately drawn to the column of long, smooth skin. He leaned in, enjoying the slight skip of the other man’s heart, and pressed his nose against the side of Stiles’ neck, where the blood pulsed steadily. Because of the proximity of both the carotid and the jugular to the surface of the skin, the neck was almost always the area of the body with the most concentrated scent. Stiles was no different, and Derek inhaled it almost desperately, running his nose up the younger man’s throat and then rubbing his cheek against it, exchanging and mixing their scents, so everyone would know that this man was spoken for. He was off-limits. He was –

Derek jerked back when he realized what he was doing, but one of Stiles’ hands had slid through his hair to the back of his head and didn’t allow him to pull away fully.

“Hey,” Stiles murmured, “what’s wrong?”

“Sorry,” Derek mumbled, not quite able to meet his eyes, “I’m sorry. I just – that was…you probably thought it was weird…”

“Actually, I kinda liked it.”

Now Derek did meet his eyes. He could hear the steadiness of Stiles’ heartbeat, so he knew the statement was true, but it didn’t stop the fear from gaining a foothold. He’d lost himself a little, letting instinct take the reins, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Why were you apologizing?”

Stiles’ expression was open, curious, but it was a different kind of curiosity than Derek was used to seeing on his face. This time it was softer, without judgement, like he wasn’t just asking to fulfill the need to know, and was instead inquiring about Derek, about whether he was okay.

“The – the neck thing…” Derek started, removing his hands from the door and setting them cautiously on Stiles’ hips, “it’s – well, the instinct is less than human. And even though you liked it, it’s still weird, and I know I’ve got other, er, _inclinations_ that are – well, I’ll try to not – I mean,” Derek huffed. “I’ll try to keep them in line. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Stiles opened his mouth for a second, but then snapped it shut. His face seemed to indicate he was working through something in his head, but his expression shifted, as though his train of thought had made a sharp 90 degree turn away from its original path. After another few seconds, Stiles spoke.

“I have another story for you.”

Derek blinked at the non-sequitur. His confusion must have been visible, because Stiles continued.

“I learned a lot during my time with the Marquez pack. And one of the most important things I learned was taught to me by a sixteen year-old girl.” Stiles smiled and let his hand slide out of Derek’s hair. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, pulling him closer. “Her name’s Emma, and she’s Paul and Mark’s daughter. They adopted her when she was only a few years old. I went over to their house one evening to pick up a few reference books they agreed to lend me, and I found Emma sitting on the porch crying. I sat down with her and asked what had happened. She told me that she’d just gotten back from her first date with a boy – and not like first date with that particular boy, but like, first date _ever_. Apparently, they had dinner and went to a movie, and things were going well, up until they started making out in his car and she licked him. And not the cute, sexy, trail-my-tongue-up-your-neck-to-drive-you-wild, type lick. She’d licked his face. Twice. Her date was human and it weirded him out and she was mortified.”

Derek still wasn’t sure where Stiles was going with the story.

“But what stuck with me was how she said that at the time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, like she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t think it was strange or abnormal, and didn’t understand why the boy freaked out. After I helped her calm down and was driving home, I realized that I finally understood what being a werewolf meant.

“Scott and the others talk about being a werewolf like they’re Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. They think about it in terms of two separate entities, as though they have to keep the wolf from taking over, but that’s not right. Or maybe it is for them, since they were bitten, but you were born a werewolf. You’ve never known anything different. And I know you have ‘anchors’ to keep you from losing your grip on humanity, but… I think the difference between humans and werewolves, other than the obvious claws and fangs and whatnot, is just our baser, evolutionary instincts.

“As a human, my baser instincts are that of an ape, essentially, while yours – despite your physical shape and form – are that of a wolf. And apes and wolves don’t have the same instincts. But regardless of our species, I think keeping a grip on our humanity is something that everybody has to do. The only difference is that the instinctive behavior of wolves tends to be more ferocious than that of apes, so when werewolves lose themselves they become much more aggressive and violent, whereas when humans lose themselves, it tends to be much less noticeable.” Stiles paused to catch his breath. “I’m getting sidetracked. The point is that you and the wolf aren’t separate entities, you are a singular individual. Werewolves aren’t half-man, half-wolf; they’re something else entirely.”

Stiles pursed his lips, thinking, and Derek had to resist the urge to kiss him again. Instead, he settled for shuffling closer and leaning his temple against Stiles’, his eyes drifting shut as he let Stiles’ voice wash over him.

“It’s like combining red and yellow to get orange. Yeah, there’s red in orange, and yeah, there’s yellow in orange, and sometimes there’s more red than yellow or vice-versa, but that doesn’t change the fact that orange is still a color all on its own. You shouldn’t have to change your shade of orange, or become red or yellow, to be accepted. And maybe the color analogy is stupid, but what I’m saying is that, I get it now. You’ve got both human and wolf instincts, red and yellow, and I accept whatever shade of orange you are. It doesn’t bother me when you do something a little less than human, because without those things, you wouldn’t be you. If you remove red or yellow from orange, it’s no longer orange.”

Derek was floored. Flabbergasted. Amazed. Astonished. Shocked. Stunned. And a million other things that he shouldn’t have been, because if there was one person in the clusterfucked hellmouth that was Beacon Hills who could possibly understand what it meant to be a werewolf, a _born_ werewolf, it was Stiles. Stiles, who ran with wolves as often as he ran his mouth, and who willingly put his own life on the line to save the ones he loved and even those he merely tolerated. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did, because Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. He didn’t have the first-hand experience, didn’t know what it was like to have to evaluate every movement, every social interaction, to make sure that he didn’t commit some human faux-pas and completely humiliate himself, or worse, risk bringing hunters to his doorstep. And yet somehow, he just _got it_. Got _him_.

It was overwhelming.

Derek felt one of Stiles’ hands twist into the fabric of his shirt at the small of his back as his other one settled carefully on his chest, right over Derek’s heart.

“So I don’t ever want to hear you apologize for being you. You’re not going to weird me out,” he paused, considering, “okay, you might, but it’s just like anything else that goes on in the bedroom. Even humans have kinks and stuff, so if you do something that I don’t like, I promise I’ll say something. But that goes both ways.” Stiles pulled his hand from Derek’s chest and poked him with a finger, making Derek lean back enough to meet his eyes. “If I do something that you don’t like or that makes you uncomfortable, _say something_. I’m not going to get mad or upset unless I find out later that you were letting me do something that made you squirm. Communication and consent are beautiful and glorious concepts, but they’re even better in practice.”

“Okay,” Derek said quietly. “Okay.”

Stiles beamed again. “You know what else is better in practice?”

Derek answered his grin with one of his own. “I think I can guess.”

And just like that, they were back to making out, and this time, Derek slowly felt himself loosening. The tension drained from his shoulders, the tightness around his ribs disappeared, and when Stiles pulled him forward, Derek let himself go nearly boneless against him, pressing their bodies together from chest to knees.

They spent a long time learning each other’s mouths, while their hands wandered each other’s bodies. Stiles ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, stroked down his back, grabbed at his hips, while Derek’s fingers wrapped around his torso, settling into the dips between his ribs, before running up his chest to his neck and face, the latter of which he held reverently between his palms while his thumbs ghosted over Stiles’ eyes and cheeks. Stiles’ hands sliding into Derek’s back pockets and groping his ass elicited a low growl that he couldn’t stop.

“I’ve gotta growling kink, who knew?” Stiles gasped as Derek’s lips trailed down his neck.

Stiles’ scent was everywhere. It hung thick and heavy in the warm night air, and Derek was nearly drunk on it. His heart pounded a steady tattoo in his ribs, his skin tingled, and everywhere that Stiles brushed his bare skin left trails of fire. When Stiles nipped at his bottom lip, it shot a zip of electricity down his spine and his pants were growing increasingly more uncomfortable as his dick took an even greater interest in the proceedings than it had before.

“Oh, God,” Stiles groaned as Derek nipped at the base of his neck, where it flowed to his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve been this hard since I was a teenager.”

Derek’s lips dragged across Stiles’ skin as he mumbled, “me either,” before sucking hard until there was a flush of red under the skin. The sight brought a rush of pride.

“I figured you’d be one for hickeys,” Stiles grumbled, without heat, as he caught Derek’s lips for another searing kiss. “Territorial bastard.”

Derek growled again and shifted just enough to get a leg between Stiles’, realigning their hips, and drawing simultaneous grunts of pleasure from both of them at the friction. 

“I’m d-definitely – “ Stiles’ hips rocked forward as his fingertips dug into the muscles of Derek’s shoulders, “not gonna last very – “

Derek slotted their mouths together again and swallowed down the end of his sentence, one of his hands gripping the back of Stiles’ neck while the other slid between their bodies to cup the hot line of Stiles’ erection through his jeans. Stiles whimpered into his mouth and thrust against his hand, movements jerky and uncoordinated. Derek stroked him through the denim a few times, greedily drinking in every sound that came from the man against him, his head spinning from the combined scent of them both and probably from lack of blood flow, since he was certain at least half the blood in his body was now in his dick. It definitely didn’t help when Stiles’ hands slid down his back, under the edge of his t-shirt, to slip into the waistband of his jeans.

The feeling of Stiles’ hands on his bare skin caused Derek to gasp, inadvertently increasing the pressure on the bulge in Stiles’ jeans. Stiles pulled away from Derek’s lips with a keening moan, panting hard.

“ ‘f you wanted it harder,” Derek slurred, “jus’ had t’ ask.” He punctuated the sentence with another firm stroke, drawing a downright filthy sound from Stiles’ throat as he dropped his head to Derek’s shoulder.

Stiles mumbled something against the skin of Derek’s neck, the faint tickle of his kiss swollen lips sending a bone-jarring shiver through his body. Despite the distraction of his own body’s reaction, he swore he’d heard something that sounded like ‘snarky-wolf.’

“Did you jus’ – “ Derek cut off with a hiss as Stiles’ hands wormed their way under the waistband of his boxer briefs to palm at his bare ass. Stiles squeezed, making Derek’s hips jerk forward, grinding his hard-on firmly against Stiles’ hip, and sending a flare of sparks across his vision. He was suddenly dangerously close to the edge; the familiar heat pooling low in his belly and the base of his spine. “ ‘m close,” he grunted through clenched teeth, knowing that Stiles heard him by the soft warm puff of breath on his neck that might have been a chuckle if the younger man hadn’t been so turned on.

“ C’mon, Der,” Stiles urged, breath hot against the shell of Derek’s ear as he nipped the earlobe beneath it. “W-wanna see you…”

“You first,” Derek growled, rolling his hips again.

Stiles’ laugh was short and unsteady. “N-no way…fuck…”

“Maybe later,” he grunted, not completely sure how he was managing to keep himself together. “In th’ meantime…”

It took only another couple of ruts before Stiles was coming with soundless cry. Derek only got a moment to enjoy the feel of Stiles’ dick pulsing under his hand before Stiles’ teeth latched onto the junction of Derek’s neck and shoulder and bit _hard_ , sending his own orgasm crashing over him.

Derek wasn’t sure how long it took before his vision returned and he started to regain feeling in his limbs, but he realized his body was still trembling a bit at the same time he registered Stiles’ fingertips stroking up and down his spine in lazy contentment.

“I had no idea this trip would be so eventful.”

Derek chuckled against the skin of Stiles’ neck, happily stoned on the thick scent of Stiles’ sexual satiation. He pressed a soft kiss to the hinge of his jaw before asking, “good eventful or bad eventful?”

“Well…” Stiles hedged, dragging the vowel out as if he wasn’t sure.

Derek lifted one of his hands from Stiles’ hip so he could dig his fingertips up under his ribs. Stiles yelped and jerked, snorting as he tried not to laugh.

“Good or bad eventful?” Derek asked again, pulling back to look at him.

Stiles didn’t meet his eyes, but his lips were twitching in their efforts to not smile. “What do you want me to say?” He shrugged. “I mean –“

This time, Derek dug both hands into his ribs and then up into his armpits. Stiles valiantly resisted for almost three seconds before he let out a truly epic snort and burst into laughter, curling over into himself as Derek continued his merciless assault. A burst of _elation_ exploded from Stiles’ pores, wafting easily into Derek’s nose and making him grin.

“Uncle!” Stiles gasped, finally. “Creepy, un-dead, zombie uncle Peter!”

Derek didn’t let up. “Good or bad, Stiles? Good or bad?”

“Oh my God, you –“ Stiles hooted as Derek’s fingers hit another particularly sensitive spot. “Good! Definitely good!”

Derek finally let him go, but the younger man just leaned forward, collapsing into the werewolf’s arms as he tried to catch his breath.

“Carry me,” Stiles grumbled, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck. “Th’ unprovoked tickle attack wore me out. Now ‘m tired.”

“Okay,” Derek answered easily, reaching around Stiles to push the front door open. “Just remember that you wanted this.”

Before Stiles could ask what he meant, Derek had bent down and thrown Stiles over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He sputtered in outrage as Derek carried him inside, kicking the door shut behind them, and then hauled him up the stairs and into the guest bathroom, where he dropped him on the counter.

Derek flipped the light on to find Stiles’ watching him with warm eyes. He didn’t say anything, so Derek let himself stare back, mentally cataloguing the gorgeous man in front of him. He never wanted to forget the mussed hair, swollen lips, and stubble burn; would always remember the deep red bruise on his neck and affection in his eyes.

“What?” Derek asked finally, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” Stiles told him, voice soft as he slid off the counter.

Derek cleared his throat and looked away. “Well, there’s clean towels in the linen closet, soap and stuff in the shower, and I’ll grab you some pajamas.”

“Thanks, Derek.”

He nodded as Stiles stepped forward and placed a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Now, unless you’re going to join me, get out so I can shower. If I wait any longer, I think my boxers are going to end up cemented to my crotch.”

Derek laughed as he stepped out of the bathroom. “Such a romantic.”

Stiles gave him a flirty wink before shutting the door.

Derek stood in front of the door for longer than was probably socially acceptable before finally retrieving a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for Stiles to borrow. He slipped his arm into the bathroom to deposit them on the counter, grabbed Stiles’ dirty clothes and then drug himself downstairs to bring his bag and his dog inside and toss Stiles’ clothes in the washer. He flipped on a lamp in the living room and then wandered back up to his room, stripped out of his clothes, and hopped in a quick shower.

Half an hour later, he was standing at the stove flipping pancakes when strong arms slid around his waist and a solid body pressed up against his.

“Oh my God, are those chocolate chip?” Stiles’ wondered, peering over his shoulder.

“Are there any other kind of pancakes allowed at 2 AM?”

“Fuck, no. Only heathens eat chocolate-less pancakes before the sun comes up.”

Derek chuckled as Stiles dropped a couple soft kisses to his bare shoulder and tucked his face into Derek’s neck. He continued to pour and flip pancakes, figuring Stiles would get bored eventually, but the younger man never did.

Stiles remained behind Derek, his arms around Derek’s waist, the thumb on one of his hands stroking back and forth on the older man’s hip absentmindedly. He smelled clean and happy, his body was warm against Derek’s back through the fabric of his borrowed t-shirt, and each soft exhale of breath against his skin stoked the fire of contentment burning in his bones.

Derek had just shut the burner off when the convection oven beeped. He turned around in Stiles’ arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring breakfast to you in the living room.”

Stiles nodded and let him go, then shuffled towards the living room.

Derek removed two plates from the cabinet and pulled the bacon out of the oven. He scrambled a few eggs and then split them between the two plates, adding bacon and pancakes to both. He grabbed some silverware, maple syrup, and snagged a couple bottles of water out of the fridge.

When Derek carried it all into the living room, he found Stiles standing in front of the wide bank of windows along the back of the house, gazing out into the darkness. He set the food down and then padded over to where Stiles was standing. The younger man had a look on his face that Derek didn’t recognize and his eyes were slightly distant.

“Hungry?” Derek asked, laying a hand on his lower back.

Stiles twitched a bit, as though startled by Derek’s presence, but then nodded.

They moved over to the sofa and sat down. Stiles plucked a piece of bacon off his plate and popped it in his mouth. He moaned.

Derek smiled as he cut into his pancakes. “Good?”

“The best! I love thick-cut bacon, but I never get to have it.”

“Because of your father’s heart?” Derek guessed.

Stiles nodded as he shoved a bite of pancakes into his mouth and moaned again, his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh my God… How did I not know you could cook? These are awesome!”

His question seemed to be rhetorical, so Derek didn’t answer, just continued to eat. After they both had cleaned their plates, Derek asked, “so what were you thinking about earlier?”

Stiles shifted on the sofa, turning to face Derek.

“I was thinking about how happy you seem.” The tips of his ears turned pink, and Derek caught a whiff of embarrassment, but Stiles continued anyway. “I was thinking about how different you are from the guy I met in the woods all those years ago, but how you’re also exactly the same.”

Stiles smiled and reached a hand out to touch his face. He ran the pad of his thumb over one of Derek’s eyebrows.

“I’m wearing my confused eyebrows again, aren’t I?”

Stiles chuckled and let his hand fall away. He looked around the room, eyes drifting over the slightly beaten-up furniture, the framed art on the walls, the photos scattered across the top of the entertainment center, before finally meeting Derek’s eyes again.

“This is the first time you’ve lived somewhere that felt like a home.”

Derek swallowed hard and looked away. Stiles was right. It had taken him several years of self-punishment and almost dying in a desert in Mexico, but he’d eventually sought out a board-certified psychologist with knowledge of the supernatural and spent the next six months visiting him weekly before finally starting to feel like his life wasn’t such a shit-show.

“This is the first time since the fire that I felt like I deserved one,” he admitted finally.

“You’ve always deserved one,” Stiles told him, shrugging, “but I get it.” They sat in silence for a minute. “I’m proud of you, just so you know. I don’t know if anyone’s told you that, but… You’ve come a long way from the crotchety Sourwolf who told Scott and me to get off his lawn.”

Derek couldn’t help but smile at the gentle teasing.

“But you’re also the same generous, soft-hearted guy who routinely risked his life to save ours.” Stiles glanced down at where Remy had wandered over to beg, his muzzle resting on Stiles’ thigh while the man stroked his head. “Example A, right here.”

Derek ran his finger across his empty plate, gathering some of the remaining syrup, and offered it to Remy who licked it off happily.

“Don’t let him fool you. I only keep him around because he scares off the Chupacabras.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles drawled. “That’s why you named him after one of the X-men and let him live in the house. I bet you even go full-shift and run around with him like a puppy on the full moon.”

Derek shrugged. “It was in his contract.”

Remy finished cleaning off Derek’s finger and seemed to realize he wasn’t getting anything more, so he sauntered over to his dog bed against the wall and flopped down. Stiles was watching the canine.

“I didn’t get a good look at him outside because it was dark. He’s a gorgeous dog.”

Derek agreed. Remy was full-blooded Catahoula cur, about seventy pounds, with long legs and a deep chest. His coat was mostly a blue leopard, except for small bits of brown and a large swath of white around his neck, on a couple paws, and the tip of his tail, which was curved and carried like a question mark over his butt when he was happy.

“He’s too smart for his own good. I used to keep his food in a container on the floor of the laundry room, but had to move it because he figured out how to unlatch the lid and help himself.”

Stiles’ laugh was cut short by a wide yawn and Derek took that as their cue. He stood up and scooped up their plates.

“Need some help?” Stiles asked, standing up too.

“Nah, I’m just going to put them in the dishwasher.”

At Stiles’ nod, he moved back into the kitchen, set the dishes in the dishwasher, rinsed off the pans in the sink, and flipped off the light. Stiles was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he emerged.

“Come on,” Derek murmured, taking his hand.

Together they padded up the stairs and down the hall into Derek’s room.

“You know, you’re different too,” Derek admitted softly, once they were enveloped by the darkness in the bedroom.

“How so?” Stiles wondered, turning to face him.

“You seem, I don’t know, softer, maybe? In high school, your jokes and sarcastic remarks were biting and aimed at people’s weak spots. It was like a defense mechanism, you’d throw them out to hurt others just enough that they’d be distracted by their own insecurities and not notice yours. But now…” Derek shrugged, even though Stiles probably couldn’t see the motion in the dark. “There were a couple times tonight that I thought you might say something snarky or sharp – I was expecting it – but then you just…didn’t.”

Stiles huffed a short laugh. “You know, my dad said the same thing a couple weeks ago when I was visiting. Even Lydia commented on it a few months back.” He paused and his grip on Derek’s hand tightened minutely. “Is that a – I mean, do you – “

Derek stepped closer and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. “I like it,” he whispered.

“Oh. Uh, good.”

Derek dropped Stiles’ hand and padded over to the nightstand to flip on a lamp.

Stiles gazed around the room for a moment. “You know, I was never sure whether you were the kind of guy who made his bed in the morning. But I guess now I know.”

Derek pulled a couple throw pillows from the bed and then turned down the quilt and top sheet.

“There’s something…cozy about getting into a neatly made bed in the evenings.” Derek shrugged. “Or maybe that’s just me.”

He showed Stiles into the bathroom, dug out a new toothbrush for him, and then they stood elbow to elbow as they brushed their teeth in front of the sink. Derek had turned off the lamp on the nightstand after turning down the bed, so when they shut the bathroom light off, the bedroom was plunged into darkness.

“Shit. I forget how dark it really gets out in the middle of nowhere,” Stiles mumbled, his voice muffled by his shirt as he tugged it over his head.

“No light pollution,” Derek said as he shucked off his sweats and slid into bed.

He looked up at where Stiles was tugging off his borrowed sweats, leaving him in a pair of Derek’s boxer briefs, and had it not been for his enhanced werewolf sight, he might not have noticed the sprawling piece of artwork on Stiles’ ribs as he slipped off the borrowed t-shirt. The younger man went to climb into bed, but Derek was sitting up and reaching for the lamp on the night stand. He flipped it on and then turned back around to stare.

“Oh,” Stiles said, rubbing at the back of his neck while his neck and face turned pink, “I – uh, I forgot that you haven’t seen them…”

“Them?”

The younger man nodded and then shuffled closer to Derek on his knees. He laid his left hand on the headboard to keep his arm out of the way so Derek could look closer.

There was a large tattoo on his left side of a forest, Derek could tell it was the Preserve simply from the type of trees, and it was done in shades of bright green, with rich browns for the trunks and the forest floor. Silhouetted against the deep colors of the background was the shape of a howling wolf. The wolf had no color, no lines, the entire form was devoid of ink, but it worked astonishingly well; the contrast of Stiles’ pale skin against the rest of the design made the animal stand out without being overwhelming.

“It’s gorgeous,” Derek breathed, using one finger to gently trace the outline of the wolf. “I thought you hated needles though.”

“Dude, after the blowtorch, needles were a piece of cake. Well, okay…I still hate them, but the blowtorch put them in better perspective.”

“How many do you have?”

“Just two, technically. I’m thinking about a third, though.”

Derek nodded. “Can I see the other one?”

Stiles twisted, exposing his back. Across his shoulders were the phases of the moon. There was no New Moon, but starting on his left shoulder there was a waxing crescent, a first quarter, and a waxing gibbous; in the center, between his shoulder blades and at the base of his neck was a full moon, and continuing across his right shoulder was a waning gibbous, a third quarter, and finally, a waning crescent. They were done in a light gray and by an obviously talented artist with real attention to detail.

“Stiles,” Derek choked, just staring at the simple, yet beautiful shapes inked into his skin.

A salty-sour note of anxiety emanated from Stiles. “So, uh, what do you think?”

A boulder had lodged in his throat, and Derek couldn’t speak. So instead of answering verbally, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the full moon, kissing it reverently. He let his fingers trace each moon from left to right, and his lips trailed after them, dropping soft kisses to each one before returning to the one full and center. He kissed it once more before leaning his forehead against the back of Stiles’ neck, inhaling a deep, but shaky breath.

“Der,” Stiles breathed.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

“Wanna see what I’m considering for my third tattoo?”

There was a weightiness to the question that Derek wasn’t sure he understood, a swift current of meaning underlying the simplicity of the inquiry. “Yeah,” he croaked again, this time indicating agreement instead of acknowledgement.

Derek took another deep breath, this one much steadier that the last, and lifted his head from Stiles’ back. He wiped roughly at his eyes as Stiles turned back around to face him. The younger man’s hands were in his lap, fidgeting, and his eyes were cast downward, watching them intently.

“So, when I decided I wanted my first one, I wondered if there was a way to kind of, like, try it on for a while to see if I liked it. And when I mentioned it at one of my training sessions with Odette, she told me she might have an idea. A couple weeks later, she handed me a piece of notebook paper with a few simple instructions and a short spell, and that allowed me to take my tattoo idea and basically wear it for a couple weeks.” Stiles took a deep breath and finally looked up to meet Derek’s eyes in the warm yellow glow of the lamp. “This third one, I got all the prep done before I left, but got distracted before I did the spell and just figured I’d do it when I got back. But…” Stiles glances down at his hands again, and another hint of anxiety taints Stiles’ scent. “But I think, maybe, I think that bumping into you…I mean, I don’t really believe in fate, and I’m not saying that we’re – or that this, us, or – “

Derek laid a hand over Stiles’ and brought the fidgeting and stuttering to an end. After a couple moments, Stiles slipped his right hand out from under Derek’s and laid it on the left side of his chest, as though preparing to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Derek watched his lips move silently, forming words that he was pretty sure weren’t in English. A faint glow shone from between his chest and palm while his lips moved, and then faded as Stiles gave Derek a cautious smile before removing his hand.

Derek had no idea what he was expecting, but the simple design that had appeared on Stiles’ pectoral definitely wasn’t it. He stared at it and stared at it and stared at it some more, while his mind raced with all the potential implications of Stiles choosing such a design to permanently adorn his body.

It was a solid black wolf’s paw print. But it wasn’t just a paw print; the paw pad of the print had been exchanged for a triskelion, almost identical to the one nestled between the blades of his own shoulders. Around the triskelion were the typical toe pads and nails. It clean and elegant, and the simple change in the design, using the triskelion instead of the paw pad, gave the entire piece a subtle, and elegant, masculinity.

Stiles’ hands, still cradled in Derek’s grip, started to fidget again, which brought Derek’s focus back to the room at large. He realized he could hear the thundering of Stiles’ heart as he waited for a reaction, strong waves of anxiety radiating from his skin, and from the tension in the younger man’s jaw, Derek could tell that Stiles was forcing himself to hold his tongue.

“I – I don’t –“

Derek’s statement ground to a halt as he realized he had no idea what to say. How could he give Stiles an idea of what was going through his head, when even he didn’t know what he was thinking? How could he possibly explain the sudden constriction of his chest, like all of the air had been sucked from the room, or the almost painful heave in his gut, as though his stomach was shoved in a bread maker? He didn’t know why his skin felt two sizes too small and his nerve endings were suddenly so sensitive that even the still air of the room made them spark. Derek had no idea what was going on until his own heart gave a single thump so hard it hurt.

He jerked his hands away from Stiles and pressed them both to the center of his own chest, pushing hard against his ribcage, as he curled into himself. The pain from the initial beat wasn’t dissipating. There was no way – it couldn’t possibly –

Another beat from inside his chest pushed the ache wider, and the beat after that spread it wider, until his entire chest throbbed in time with his heart. He was only distantly aware of Stiles’ presence, could hear the concern in his voice even if he couldn’t make out the words, could smell the worry and fear, even if he couldn’t reason out the cause.

He whimpered involuntarily when Stiles’ fingers ghosted across his forehead. At the sound, the younger man jerked his fingers away, which just made Derek whimper again. The touch hadn’t hurt, and Derek leaned towards Stiles, seeking the contact again. He could hear Stiles ask him something, but the pain had climbed up his neck and wrapped itself around his head, twisting vengefully at his temples. Derek’s arms wrapped around his middle, his hands fisted, as he rocked forward.

And suddenly it was gone. The pain, the feeling of suffocation, and the burning of his skin from hypersensitive nerve endings. The release from the pain made his body go limp, and as Derek’s mind slowly came back online, he recognized the heady scent of Stiles from where his face was pressed into the skin of his bedmate’s neck. He was in Stiles’ arms, both of them horizontal, with Derek sprawled on top of the younger man.

“Hey big guy,” Stiles murmured, his long fingers carding through Derek’s hair, “are you back with me now?”

Derek nodded distantly, his attention focusing back on the spot in the center of his chest where the pain had started. Now, instead of the pain, he could feel a bond. A warm, comfortable tether that hummed in pleasure and he didn’t need help to know that the person on the other side of that connection was Stiles. It felt right, _so right_ , to have a link to someone again, and this bond was even better.

“So… What happened? I mean, I felt it, whatever _it_ was, but it didn’t hurt for me. More like, I had been in pain for so long that I didn’t notice it until tonight, when it disappeared. If that makes sense. But, for you… It looked like agony dude.”

Derek lifted his head and gazed down at the man beneath him, studying his soft amber eyes, before drifting lower, to where the paw print sat on his chest. His eyes flicked to his own chest as he pushed himself up a little, and he wasn’t surprised when he saw Stiles’ design inked onto his own skin in the same exact spot.

“Dude!”

Stiles scrambled out from under him, eyes wide as they zeroed in on his chest.

“How – I mean, what – dude!”

Derek sat up across from Stiles, the fingers on his right hand absently tracing the new design on his chest.

“Did we just – I mean, I thought that there might be a little, you know, between us, but I didn’t – “

“Yeah,” Derek murmured absently, head tilted down, watching as his fingers traced the wolf print on his chest.

“’Yeah’, what?” Stiles demanded.

“To all of it,” Derek answered, looking up.

“So we’re really…”

“Mate bonded,” Derek finished for him.

Stiles blinked a couple times, face blank, and Derek could almost hear the gears turning in his head. A few silent seconds crept by while Stiles collected his thoughts.

“Oh my God.”

Derek tried to keep his anxiety in check while he waited for Stiles to elaborate, but when one has had the type of shit-tastic life that he’s had, it was hard _not_ to expect the worst.

“That’s why you left.”

Now it was Derek’s turn to blink in confusion. “What?”

“The beginning of the Bond. I couldn’t feel it, because I’m human, but you did. You felt the Bond start to coalesce, so you left.” He paused, considering something. “Which means… I WAS RIGHT. Suck it, Scott!”

Derek raised an eyebrow.

“I knew there was something between us! Scott thought I was crazy and reading into things, and even Lydia was skeptical, but I was right. _Again_.” He punctuated the last word with a fist pump.

Derek ducked his head and huffed a soft laugh as he wrapped a hand around Stiles’ flailing fist to keep it from hitting him, and lowered it into his lap. He absently played with it, stroking a thumb across the knuckles, unfurling the fingers, caressing his palm, and tracing his fingers while he came to terms with the new tether in his chest.

The term ‘Mate Bond’ was a bit of a misnomer, but nobody had been able to come up with a better term for it, so the name stuck. It was a type of bond most commonly found between romantic partners, which was how it got its name, but it wasn’t uncommon to find the same bond between siblings or best friends. The way he understood it, the Mate Bond only formed once two people reached a certain level of implicit trust and emotional intimacy with each other. Both people had to be on the same page, so to speak, which meant that it was impossible to form a one-sided Mate Bond.

“Yeah,” Derek answered finally. “We did have something and that is why I left. I knew the beginnings of a Bond were there and if I stayed the Bond would have solidified. But I was in a really bad place back then and you were young.” Stiles opened his mouth to respond, but Derek held up a hand to hold him off. “You were more than capable of making your own decisions, even if you weren’t legally an adult yet, I know. And if that had been the only factor, I probably would have stayed. I wasn’t _overly_ concerned with the age factor, especially since Mate Bonds function like pack bonds, only with a little more intensity, which means they can be broken and reconnected as relationships and situations change. So it wasn’t like we would’ve been pledging forever with each other.”

“So you’re saying that werewolves _don’t_ mate for life?”

Derek rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “We’re not beavers, Stiles. You really need to stop using the internet.”

Stiles just grinned but didn’t respond, as though he knew Derek wasn’t finished with his explanation. So he continued, his heart hammering as he laid it bare, nervous but not scared. He knew Stiles wouldn’t hurt him. And wasn’t _that_ a heady thought?

“The much bigger part of why I left was _me_. I knew I _wanted_ that kind of Bond with you, but I was nowhere near emotionally or psychologically stable enough for a relationship. I had a lot of issues that I needed to work through and a lot to learn about myself. Besides,” Derek shrugged self-consciously, “you deserve the best, so I wanted to be the best – or at least a better – version of myself to be worthy of you.”

Derek didn’t even have to look at Stiles to know his response. A tidal wave of affection and elation crashed into his chest from Stiles’ side of the Bond as a cool hand with long fingers cupped his cheek, thumb stroking softly across his cheekbone.

“You’ve always been worthy of me, Der.”

Stiles’ words lodged a rock in his throat, so he cleared it before continuing. “The reason why the connection hurt me and not you is probably my own fault.”

He looked up to meet Stiles’ confused frown.

“In the time since I left Beacon Hills, your side of the Bond lingered, but didn’t grow. Mine did. Or maybe not _grew_ , but _stretched_. The entire time we were apart I could feel my side of the Bond reaching out for yours, so when we finally connected, my side snapped back all at once, kind of like a rubber band.”

“So what you’re saying is…” The smile on Stiles’ face told Derek he wasn’t going to like the next part of his sentence. “You got bitch-slapped by _feels_.”

Derek groaned and ran a hand down his face, attempting, and probably failing, to hide his amusement. From the younger man’s choked off cackle, he definitely wasn’t successful.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Derek found words spilling out of his mouth unbidden.

“Laura and I were Bonded, before the fire.”

Stiles sucked in a short, quiet breath as his body went still. The mood of the room shifted instantly, but it didn’t feel suffocating. Instead, it was cozy.

“We were, well, we were best friends. I don’t even remember when we Bonded because we had been for as long as I could remember. But afterwards…” Derek took a deep breath, willing his lungs to expand, despite feeling like they compressed by his breastbone. “It broke. I don’t – I don’t know when, exactly, but… I woke up one morning and –“ He pressed a hand to chest as the phantom pain flared, but for once it didn’t feel like it was burning. It still felt singed, but not actively burning anymore.

The empathy flooding from Stiles’ side of the Bond was soothing, and the sadness and warmth that were woven in seemed to smooth the rough edges of the memories. He wondered if the new connection was part of the reason he could speak about the fire and losing Laura without feeling like he was going to combust. A sudden spike of curiosity made Derek look up from where he’d been studying Stiles’ fingers and stroking his hand.

“So, you and I share this bitchin’ tattoo as part of the Bond… What mark did you share with Laura?”

The question made Derek’s ears go pink and he knew Stiles noticed because he could feel his amusement and affection. If he had any other doubts, the badly repressed grin on his face washed them away.

“We, uh, we had a birthmark. It kind of looked like a…well, a duck.”

Stiles cackled, but Derek knew there was no malice in it.

“Where at? Where was it?” he pestered, once he’d caught his breath.

Derek was so going to regret this, but he couldn’t find it in himself to refuse Stiles anything at this point.

“It was on my – our – butt,” he grunted. “The right side of our butts.”

This time Stiles laughed until he cried, and when he finally started to calm down, Derek could smell the salt his tears left on his flushed cheeks. He wanted to be grumpy, and broody, but Stiles’ delight made it impossible and Derek found that he would gladly tell Stiles embarrassing story after embarrassing story if only to keep him happy and laughing.

“That’s it,” he grumbled playfully, “I take it back. We’re not Bonded anymore.”

Stiles laugh was bright, but the burst of unadulterated _joy_ that zipped along their Bond shone even brighter. He was so distracted by the sensation that he almost missed Stiles flinging himself towards Derek, who caught him and only very narrowly avoided toppling backwards off the side of the bed.

Stiles’ arms wrapped around his neck as he straddled Derek’s lap, and dropped soft kisses across the wolf’s face. Derek’s arms slipped around the younger man’s waist to hold him steady.

“Oh please, Sourwolf. We’re so Bonded that we’re practically Bondo.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that Bondo isn’t an adhesive right?”

Stiles waved a hand distractedly. “Oh please. I suppose next you’ll tell me that Chicken of the Sea doesn’t actually have chicken in it.”

“And duct tape has nothing to do with water fowl.”

Stiles’ giggle quickly morphed into a jaw-cracking yawn as he dropped his face into Derek’s neck. Derek swept a hand up and down his spine, relishing in the soft skin under his palm and the slowly deepening breaths of the man in his arms. Derek could hear Stiles’ heartbeat slowing and through their Bond he could feel Stiles’ end grow soft and fuzzy, like an unfocused photograph. He tucked his face in Stiles’ neck, inhaling the comforting scent of _home_ and _family_ , as his own eyes drifted shut. He jerked awake a few moments later when Stiles let out a muffled snore against his neck. Derek gave a soft, fond snort.

“God, I love you,” he murmured, gently maneuvering himself and Stiles into a horizontal position.

When he finally got them situated and had tugged the covers over them both, Derek closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh. Stiles shifted against him, burrowing a bit deeper under the covers and closer to Derek.

“Lo’ y’ too, Sou’olf,” Stiles mumbled sleepily before settling.

If Derek fell asleep with a dopey grin on his face, it was nobody’s business but his own.


End file.
